Last Summer's Corn
by cagd
Summary: We know how the Scoobies spent their Thanksgiving holidays in Season 4. Anybody wonder how Riley Finn spent his?


The sound of your boots as they  
Crunch against the frozen earth  
Is the only sound you hear;  
That and the wind in the remains  
Of last summer's corn  
And your breathing  
As you walk further and further  
From the warm farmhouse that  
You spent so much of your  
Childhood in,  
Returning from the land of   
Summer for just these brief  
Few days, a homecoming  
That you've been anticipating  
For a long, long time.  
After all, these are the people  
You set out to defend, or  
Maybe a lot of people like  
Them – ordinary, and innocent  
Of what you've seen since  
You left the safety of  
Your hometown where you  
Knew everybody  
And everybody knew you.  
You shift the weight of the  
20-gauge Ithaca in your gloved  
Hands – this shotgun was your  
Dad's -he left it to you  
After the hay baler ran over  
Him one summer, leaving you  
To look after your mother  
And sister while uncle Bill  
Took over the farm.  
It's a good gun, not too heavy,  
Not too light. Just right for  
What you have in mind today,  
This afternoon, where the sun  
Is a flat white disc near the  
Late autumn horizon  
In a sky the color of  
Weathered siding-  
Like on the machine shop a quarter mile  
Behind you, not too far from  
The back door of your mother's  
Kitchen, where Thanksgiving  
Dinner is being prepared  
As you walk across the fields  
That your father and his father  
Before him, once worked.  
But you're not a farmer,  
Though you can handle a tractor  
With the best of them, and you  
Can heave a calf over the fence  
At weaning time. Something  
Told you long ago that this  
Wasn't the road you'd be taking,  
So what if today, you're in  
Your old familiar shitkicker  
Boots, coveralls and a  
Feed cap with your old high  
School mascot embroidered on it  
With the notch in the bill where  
You got it caught on a barbed  
Wire fence the week before you  
Left for basic training  
A long, long time ago?  
You release the safety on the  
Ithaca, your dad's old  
Shotgun, easily stepping over  
A furrow with a thin film of  
Ice on it as the wind blows  
Frigid over the Iowa horizon,  
It's been a long journey;  
You've seen a lot along   
The way, most you can't tell your  
Mother or your sister about –  
You swore a lot of oaths not to,  
Oaths that protect them,  
These ordinary people, from what  
You've seen and done so that they  
Don't have to – which is what  
Being a soldier is all about, right?  
You do the dirty work so that  
People like your little sister and her  
Three kids, your nieces and nephews  
Can stay clean.  
Your breath frosts on the metal  
Of the dull blue gun barrel.  
It's nothing like what you left  
Locked up in the armory  
Back in southern California.  
Or at least that's as much  
As you can tell the home folks.  
This afternoon, you have the feeling  
That the shotgun you cradle in your  
Big farmer's hands is cleaner,  
More honest, than the weapon you  
Patrol with, night after night.  
Funny, you never would have thought  
Such thoughts until you met _her_ and  
Her oddball friends.  
That's another thing, why does  
Your mother says you've changed?  
You haven't. You're still the same  
Guy who went to basic training  
Four years ago. But you  
Catch her looking at you with a  
Frown on her face. Nothing big,  
Just something subtle, small.  
And your sister, as she held your  
Newest niece on her lap this  
Morning at church, she looked  
At you with that same frown and  
Then looked away while saying,  
"I don't know what's happened  
To you big brother, but I'm going  
To pray for you because  
You've changed somehow."  
Well, of course, you've changed!  
You've left the farm, you've seen  
Things, things you can't tell them  
About, things that would upset them-  
Because not only would you be breaking  
Solemn promises, but they couldn't  
Handle the truth – it would pull the  
Rug out from under them, destroying the  
Safe little world you went out into  
The bigger, more dangerous world  
In order to protect.  
And your dogs, the two big half-lab mutts  
That have always been your best friends  
Before you were stationed in California,  
They greeted you joyfully every time  
You managed to come home on furlough.  
This time they slink around you, noses working  
Snarling at you as if you were a stranger  
Trespassing on your family's land.  
They too, tell you that there's something  
Different about you, but hey, if a man's  
Dogs don't recognize him  
After he's been away, then what of it?  
You see a stirring in the fallen corn stalks  
Left behind by your uncle's harvester and  
You slow down as you  
Raise your father's shotgun, sighting down  
The dark blued steel.  
This is prey you can brag about.  
It's part of what you swore to protect –  
It belongs here. It was made for your  
Kind, it is here for you to harvest  
On this long, cold day in Iowa  
Among the rustling remains  
Of last summer's corn.  
So why does everything feel wrong?  
Those strange little wounds you find  
On your body, around your heart,  
Have healed up and have stopped appearing  
In the morning after you've slept  
Too hard, the strange half-memories  
Of someone tampering with you  
As you lay there looking up at the lights,  
Those are fading.  
Is this why your mother and your  
Sister now look at you sideways?  
Do they see those wounds too?  
There's a whirr in front of you,  
As a rooster pheasant rockets straight  
Up into the grey November sky  
Silhouetted like a crucifix,  
Wings stock still in the split  
Second it takes you to get him  
In your sights.  
You pull the  
Trigger  
And the shot  
Echoes from the  
Horizon all  
Around you  
And your prey  
Falls  
To  
The  
Frozen   
Earth,  
Nothing more than a dead bird  
With gaudy feathers,  
Still warm, his smoking  
Blood spattered  
Where he landed as you  
Put the safety back on  
The Ithaca, kneel,  
And gather him up  
To put in your game bag  
All thoughts of what might  
Be the truth, of what might  
Be happening to you, forgotten  
As the first snow of winter  
Begins to dust the empty  
Cornfields that circle  
You on all sides.


End file.
